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The gentlemen came in before the wonder had fairly subsided, and the interesting intelligence was duly reported. How provoking Mr. Folger was! He could not see anything at all remarkable in the affair ; perhaps they were old friends! and Mr. Harden would insist that Mary Butler had an undoubted right to go up street as often as she chose. But men are always so queer-they never suspect! There was more going on than some people thought for; the ladies all agreed they should hear from that quarter again.

And so they did ; for just as Hannah called them to tea, Harriet directed their attention to the window, with many a silent sign toward that corner of the room in which the gentlemen were discussing the projected river road; and there in the uncertain twilight of early spring, they saw just as sure as you are reading this page-they saw Mary Butler going down street, and Mr. Jorden walking with her! Miss Harriet declared it was very hard to see why some people were so much in the street, in a manner that said as plainly as possible, that she thought it extremely lucid ; and added that "she'd like to have brother John see her walking that way with Mr. Jorden," intimating that if he did, it would be the last time she'd get out that winter !-- The Gossips of Rivertown.

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HAVERGAL, FRANCES RIDLEY, an English poet and religious writer, born at Astley, Worcestershire, December 14, 1836; died at Swansea, Wales, June 3, 1879. She was the daughter of William Henry Havergal, an English clergyman and musician, the author of a Psalmody, from whom she inherited a fine talent for music. She was the author of many religious and devotional poems, published at various times under the titles of Bells across the Snow, Compensation and other Devotional Poems, Loyal Responses, Songs for the Master, Alpine Poems, etc. She also published several volumes of prose, principally for young people. Since her death her poems have all been collected and published in two volumes, and the story of her life has been told by her sister, Margaret V. Havergal, in Memorials of Frances Ridley Havergal.



O wanderer from my side! Soon drops each blossom of the darkening wild, Soon inelts each meteor which thy steps beguiled, Soon is the cistern dry which thou hast hewn, And thou wilt weep in bitterness full soon. Return! ere gathering night shall shroud the way Thy footsteps yet may tread in the accepted day.


O erring, yet beloved ! I wait to bind thy bleeding feet, for keen Ind rankling are the thorns where thou hast been;

I wait to give thee pardon, love and rest.
Is not My joy to see thee safe and blest ?
Return! I wait to hear once more thy voice,
To welcome thee anew, and bid thy heart rejoice.


O fallen, yet not lost! Canst thou forget the life for thee laid down, The taunts, the scourging, and the thorny crown? When o'er thee first My spotless robe I spread, And poured the oil of joy upon thy head, How did thy weakening heart within thee burn, Canst thou remember all, and wilt thou not return ?


O chosen of my love !
Fear not to meet thy beckoning Saviour's view;
Long ere I called thee by thy name, I knew
That very treacherously thou wouldst deal ;
Now have I seen thy ways, yet I will heal.
Return! Wilt thou yet linger far from Me?
My wrath is turned away, I have redeemed thee.


What know we of God's thoughts? One word of gold

A volume doth enfold.

They are—“not ours !" Ours ? what are they? their value and their powers ? So evanescent, that while thousands fleet

Across thy busy brain,

Only a few remain
To set their seal on memory's strange consistence
Of these, some worthless, some a life-regret,

That we would fain forget ;
And very few are rich and great and sweet;

And fewer still are lasting gain,

And these most often born of pain, Or sprung from strong concussion into strong exist.


Now turn we from the darkness to the light,
From dissonance to pure and full accord !

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